Heaven comes so near

I love the Orthodox Church. I really really do.

Tonight, I drove up to Cleveland to go to church with a good friend of mine. We walked in, and the first thought in my head, OK second after, "whoa clouds of incense," was, "Wow I love Orthodox vestments." Those folk just don't miss anything. Even the vestments are spectacular. There is no mistaking that man there, who you might enjoy a hamburger with on any other day of the week (except in Lent, then it would be a bean burger or something), is a PRIEST and an icon and ordained, really, and used, truly. It's very very cool.

For me, there is no time of year when heaven comes so near as these last days of Lent. We are tired. We stand for hours and we get sore. We're hungry. We're sex-deprived. And suddenly, you start to find the end of the rainbow. And there's really gold there.

Much of the beginning of the service focused on Judas. I puzzled over this until I started noticing that the focus was being honed in on his faults, his transgressions, his underlying vices that laid the foundation for his final betrayal. The Orthodox have a very interesting way of grinding lessons into you. They don't come out and say, "this is the way it is." They paint picture after picture after picture after picture. And you start to see. Sound like Anyone else we know?

The first thing that tipped me off to the Judas theme was a part of the service where a series of verses (Antiphon) were chanted. Each calls to mind something Jesus said or did. He raised Lazarus, he predicted his betrayal, he washed the feet of the disciples (even Judas's)... and in all of these things, Judas was unwilling to understand.

He chose.

Over and over again, throughout Holy Week, we are given contrasting examples. Be like the virgins who waited for the bridegroom with the lamps lit. Don't be like the ones who missed him. Be like Peter, who, though fallen, repented and loved and lived again. Don't be this; be this.

And it started to become painfully clear. Judas was unwilling to understand. He was avaricious. He was envious. He was impatient. He was unfaithful. His feet were washed and he was ungrateful. He had all the evidence directly in front of him and he refused to understand. He sold the Man who made him.

And how different are any of we?

Now, it must be noted that at no time did I feel that any sense of guilt was being contrived and shoved down my throat. In fact, I didn't sense any guilt at all. It was just the massive realization that I, too, can refuse to understand, can refuse patience, can refuse generosity, can refuse gratitude. I can do all of these things. It's not an emotional response that's necessarily generated, though it does follow. It's the knowledge that all this is not just about a few random men 2000 years ago. It's alive and present and still being played out here, now, today.

But again, we are drawn to another set of contrasts. There are two thieves crucified with our Risen One. One repents. One mocks. Be this, not that.

Judas and Peter both find shame, guilt, and remorse. Judas's last act of faithlessness was failing to wait to see what the third day brought.

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There was a great deal of painful irony present in the service. The first I saw was at the end of the second Gospel reading. John 18:28. "They (the Jews) led Jesus from Caiaphas to the praetorium. Now it was early morning, and they themselves did not enter the praetorium so that they might not be defiled , and might eat the passover."

Oh my. They didn't know. But they should have.

And later: "Today the Jews nailed to the Cross the Lord Who had divided the sea with a rod, and who had led them into the wilderness. Today they pierced His side with a spear, who for their sakes smote Egypt with plagues; and gave Him gall to drink, Who had rained manna upon them for food."

And again: "Today is hung upon the Tree, He Who suspended the land in the midst of the waters. A crown of thorns crowns Him, Who is the King of Angels. He is wrapped about with the purple of mockery, Who wrapped the Heavens with clouds. He received buffetings, Who freed Adam in the Jordan. He was transfixed with nails, Who is the Son of the Virgin."

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Matthew 27:24-25. Now Pilate, seeing that he was doing no good, but rather that a riot was breaking out, took water and washed his hands in sight of the crowd, saying, "I am innocent of the blood of this just man; see to it yourselves." And all the people answered and said, "His blood be on us and on our children."

What a horror to say. What a glory it turned out to be.

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Insult after injury was poured out on the head of Christ. Absurdities. Appalling ironies. And yet, He sees fit to give us back an irony of our own. Through all of this, heaven bends so near to us. It's funny, but really shouldn't be (given all we know), how in the middle of the greatest horror we find the greatest glory.

I find, somehow, on what the West calls Maundy Thursday, a desire to pray for Christ. It seems sacrelige, somehow, to think that I, the creature, should take pity on and pray for the Son of God Son of Man. But on this night, I remember God Almighty prayed in the Garden, tasted fear, and was utterly alone. And I wonder, is it pride to long to comfort Him? Through the eternality of God, might I somehow reach back and offer the Comforter comfort?

I've always wondered what the angel brought when it came and ministered to Him. I have no way of knowing, but sometimes I wonder if it brought to Him visions of us. Maybe it showed Him my face, among millions of others, and said, "This is why. And these, your Saints yet unborn, asked me to tell You, here and now, that they love you, and they thank you, and they will wait with you in the Garden this night, and they will kiss Your feet on the cross tomorrow, and they will each try, with all of their frailty, to ease and lessen Your pain."

Son of God, Son of Man. Remember me in your Kingdom.